


dinner (to which she was only brought to)

by Paradoxalpoised



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, New York City, joaniarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxalpoised/pseuds/Paradoxalpoised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty wants what she wants and Watson doesn't play games.</p><p>"Joan does seem furious, of course. But she must get over it. The food is exquisite here, and some wine. Wine will do it. She nods to the Sommelier in that discrete gesture people bred into money learn from such a young age. She's kept it, there are no prescription on these sort of things, even if you were brought up in a family fallen out of money."</p><p>[Setting | Events in this short story take place some time after the whole Mycroft debacle at the end of Season 2.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	dinner (to which she was only brought to)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mermaiddrunk (Rayett)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mermaiddrunk+%28Rayett%29).



> I wrote this short story about a year ago, to try myself at a new pairing in a new fandom which I enjoy thoroughly. I only posted to Tumblr. at the time and it's been brought to my attention I should give it a proper place.
> 
> I haven't plotted a longer story for them yet, but I think I will eventually. Until then, here is the original message I intended with the fic.
> 
> "mermaidandthedrunks mentioned something about Jamie Moriarty and Joan Watson sitting in a restaurant as a good writing exercise for me to attempt finding their voices…
> 
> I'm still not ready I think. But all the same, today was as good as any.
> 
> It's for you though, Alex, for all the encouragement and kindness."
> 
> C.

 

* * *

 

"What is this?"

Joan does seem furious, of course. But she must get over it. The food is exquisite here, and some wine. Wine will do it. She nods to the Sommelier in that discrete gesture people bred into money learn from such a young age. She's kept it, there are no prescription on these sort of things, even if you were brought up in a family fallen out of money.

"Madame?"

"Apportez-nous un Pomerol, or a Pauillac maybe. Something fruity, goûteux mais pas terriblement fort, will you? La bouteille, je vous laisse le choix du millésime."

"Tout de suite, Madame."

The Sommelier- Marcel, from Bordeaux you wouldn't doubt in such a place- disappears as swiftly as he came by, and, what satisfies her most, knew not to ask questions only to fulfill her wishes at the best of his capacity. That is what she ever appreciates in men who understand efficiency, be it Marcel, or Mr. Skeates.

"Wine is not going to sway the odds in your favor, Jamie. You had me collected at gunpoint. Again." Watson exhales in what can only be irritation. "What do you want?"

"Dear Watson, I can assure you I only had Skeates fetch you for dinner."

"Fetch me?" Now Joan is laughing a laugh Jamie doesn't like.

"I'll make sure to admonish him properly. He didn't manhandle you, did he?" That ought to bring Watson back to what's important. It's a bit manipulative, granted, but she's asking for it with all these minute details.

"No." She is predictable, in her humanity, and beautiful, but mostly incomprehensible. After a certain point. "He only was doing his job, wasn't he?"

"That's true. I don't keep him around for his manners with others than myself." She leans in with a smile she wills gentle, "Do forgive me?"

Joan doesn't like to indulge her. She desires her for it much more than she's ever going to admit, or show. That wouldn't do at all.

"You're impossible."

"Why thank you." Jamie chuckles to hide the preening smile she can't bite down at the gleam of amusement in Joan's eye.

"I'm not a pet, or one of your laquet always at your disposal for your every whim. You could have asked, like civilized people do."

Jamie sighs, she would have called and asked, but for another minute detail. Joan could have said no.

"I thought I was but a criminal."

"You could have called." Joan surveys her. She does this thing with her eyes. This introspective through and through that annoys her thoroughly because she can't predict the thoughts in Watson's head. Not all of them, definitely not these. "People do that when they kiss each other."

"I'm not people." She's not, but that was a lame answer at best.

"You were scared."

She rolls her eyes.

"And you want to… Impress me?" Joan's eyes are squinting, like she's figured out something Jamie hasn't.

"Don't be daft, Watson, if I had wanted to impress you I would have kidnapped you to France and we'd be drinking Pétrus 1982." They're drinking a Château Lafite 1982- how these Rothschild pigs got their hands on the Château she still can't reconcile with, the French…- which remains a great choice. For New York.

They're at Daniel on 60 East and 65th Street. It could have been Le Bernardin but she wasn't in the mood for seafood, and it's too  _'popular'_  for her taste at the moment.

There are now two glasses of wine on their table, and a bottle in between them, after Jamie tasted the millésime to Marcel's content.

"Don't be arrogant, it doesn't suit you."

"It hardly is arrogance, Joan, only true facts."

"You sound like Sherlock. Arrogance doesn't suit him either."

"We're both a lot less embarrassed by what people think of us than you are, I suppose." That is meant to bite, slightly.

Sherlock, Mycroft, men. They don't have any room between herself and Watson.

She always gets what she wants, a way or another.

"You both consider yourselves superior minds. And Maybe it's true, but it doesn't make you better than anyone else. Only smarter. Which actually I'm not all that convinced about."

Joan is getting up and the evening is not going like she wanted for it to go.

"Joan, stay and have dinner with me." She finds Watson's eyes with hers. She can't lie right now, she'll see right through it. "I should have called."

Watson has gathered her bag hanging from her shoulder to her jeans clad hip. She's startlingly contrasting in her couture dress, very much overdressed and inconveniencing Watson because she didn't call and ask to see her. She demanded and brought her here to impress her with her French- which is better than Sherlock's by a long shot- and…

"You were right." She admits it.

It's reluctant of course, but this woman in front of her doesn't play games, even when she's unaware of them all. She simply refuses to play. There's no fun in it yet it's the greatest challenge Jamie has ever faced. Joan would be so easy to destroy, yet so hard to break.

So far she's losing. By a long shot. Over and over again.

"I don't care about being right, Jamie."

In ways she can't rationalize, because Joan Watson doesn't want any of the things she wants. The things she collects and therefore has to offer. It makes her feel inadequate, vulnerable. She doesn't like to feel. She would squash her if she could. She should have really.

Joan is turning around walking out on her. Jamie takes a step, then another, and another rushing to catch. Short of running.

They're outside. Jamie shivers, her shoulders are nude. She catches Joan's elbow but stays behind her, her lips not so far from her ear.

"I wanted to see you again."

It's the truth.

Right out of her mouth against all her planning on whisking away and dazzling, on outsmarting and being in control. Because now they've kissed.

It's not that it's too late to kill Joan. It's that now she doesn't have the heart. It makes her hands tremble when she thinks about how easy it would be.

She could ask Skeates. Or a hired hand, a one shot hit. Clean, cleansing. How transparent would she be though? Her rule is unique and very clear. No one is to touch Sherlock Holmes or Joan Watson. Whoever does suffers the consequences. The consequence.

"I know." Is all Joan says.

Two years of observing them. She played out Irene's cards. Warmed her way inside the American government. She even won her freedom. No better than that, her immunity. The morons.

She can be of all impudence and rule her world. She can play her games, take out her opponents, restore her grandeur. In many ways she has, and it is the way it should.

Lying down at night, she dreams of Joan. Even after painting her, even after influencing her life, their lives, even watching her from afar. She made a move, for a dance.

Everybody wants to rule the world.

She's never idiotic enough to think that she will for very long if she lowers her defenses. Or allows herself to forget who she is in Joan Watson.

Yet it's Joan's skin she can smell. They're standing in the very open and public street. She's apologizing, she's confessing. Is she begging yet? Would she?

Joan turns around and pauses. Eyes on hers. There's a strange softness in the depth of the ebony dark of Joan's pupils. Jamie feels the anger rise. She won't beg. She's Moriarty.

"It'd be a shame to waste that wine. It must be what? 3,000$ a bottle?"

Fingers weaves with hers. There's a fleeting kiss to her cheek in passing of soft and light fabric of a scarf around Joan's neck. They're walking back to the restaurant.

"Five actually, but that's an irrelevant detail."

"Are you paying for the tables they're keeping empty around ours too?"

She smiles, because this is Watson. She might be inclined to lose a little. It seems she has much to learn.

"No," she smirks but slightly, matching Joan's, " _that_ , is a courtesy I'm doing them."


End file.
